Chapter Text
' Dance the night away with you
All night
Not so lonely anymore
Dancing, just dancing '
1985
Evelyn Revere
The great streets of London broke apart slowly to make way for it's counterpart in the empty fields that surrounded it. Summers harvest long since plucked, the fields were blanketed in sheets of pristine slow. Not a footprint in sight, it was the picture of perfection. The unmarred ground had stood unchanged for now. Desolate and cold but beautiful.
Wooden wheels that screeched along the path served as the only sound inside the carriage. Eve watched the world pass by from the window seat, finding that a more enchanting topic than the storm that had begun to brew in her mind. To her comfort, the world had kept moving even as hers had halted in its step, one foot hovering over the metaphorical ledge she stood before.
The precipice?
Tonight would be the last night the notion of freedom dangled itself before her eyes, taunting.
In this gawdy get up, she could hardly breathe. Her white-gold hair had been scraped back and abducted into an intricate design of ivy woven into braids, enough pins to promise her a terrific headache when she undertook the gruelling task of finding them all later tonight. Like a needle in a haystack. The dress, she had to admit, even with it's constricting corset was pretty - a light shade of green, the sleeves adorned with tendrils of ivy. The last piece of her disguise, the mask of a fawn with two small wooden antlers on either side.
For tonight, she was not a woman. She was a woodland creature, a fey. Ironic that her father would have picked out a creature like this to represent her. She suspected it a cruel joke of sorts, mocking her with her lack of freedom while dressing her like a doll.
"You will listen when I speak to you, Evelyn." The voice of her father broke through her reveries, clipped with the authority of a man that did not appreciate being ignored.
"Of course." She caught up, her head swivelling to meet his gaze. "Forgive me. I was in my own head."
A pointed sigh left the man as his fingers tenderly rubbed the slope of his nose. "As you so often are these days."
There was no kindness in his gaze when he met her eyes, only the faintly covered sight of displeasure. "I trust I need not stress the importance of tonight's event to you any more than I have already done so. It will not do to have you appear. . . "
Dejected? Disturbed? Incomprehensibly displeased by the notion of-
". . . Wilfully ignorant of your company." He finished, his green eyes narrowing to slits as he observed her.
"I understand." She thumbed the dance card attached to her wrist, finding not a spot left blank. Schooling her expression to neutrality, she found a small piece of peace in not allowing him to see her bleed.
"Yes, child. The others will expect you to be untrained in the matters of the court as your debut is so late. They think us the unworthy newcomers. You will prove them wrong tonight. I expect you to shine for me."
"I've taken the liberty of filling your dance card. Now, what have I taught you when engaging with suitors?"
"Steer the conversation towards them; ask them enough questions to appear interested, but not too many to appear desperate. Speak when spoken to. Smile at the right times. A second dance is polite if asked, a third is improper."
"And?"
Her chest grew tight underneath the unforgiving armour of her dress. "Under no circumstances am I to speak of ancient magic, or anything pertaining to it."
"Good. Remember, I will never be far from you tonight. If you should need an out, tap twice on your dance card. I will be watching."
Although she suspected that was supposed to comfort her, it did little to steel her growing nerves as the carriage ride drew closer to the manor.
A great resplendent ball would be help amongst the nobility of the wizarding world. The entirety of the Sacred 28 Families would be in attendance tonight, scouting for beneficial marriage pacts and political alliances. The two seemed to blend together when it was your neck being sold, like a prized horse on a prairie show. Evelyn's dowry, or more tactfully put bounty, was a healthy sum of Ten thousand Galleons that promised her father a legacy tied to a great family.
As the manor materialised in the distance, her heart beat faster in her chest in anticipation and anxiety. Sweat started to form in the palms of her hand in the shape of pearlescent beads that seemed not to dry even as she swatted them against the fabric of her dress. She found them turning to fists in her skirts as her lungs wretched for air. Her face had twisted beneath the mask, bereft of her father's scrutiny as she attempted to ground herself. She searched for something static and continuous to focus on.
The sound of creaking wood beneath her, a rock skidding past as the wheel passed over it. The whisps of wind calmed her aching chest, her breathing started to slow. Always moving forward. The wheel met a resistance that came in the form of a squeal before the carriage jutted slightly, the sound of small bones cracking underneath the unforgiving weight of the carriage. Eve winced as the sound hit her ears, earning her the ire of her father once more.
"Animals. You'd think they have no will to live at all." He grunted, reclining in his seat. “No matter now. The elves will clean it when we arrive home.”
”We could clean it. It’s only a spell.”
“That would be a waste of my valuable time." That was the last word spared between the two as the gates encompassing the country dwelling opened before them. Great imposing bars of iron that allowed the visage of the opulent house to be looked at from afar, taunting the less fortunate with the idea that such luxury could be bought, not born into. For Reginald Revere, a great pit of envy had grown in his stomach as the carriage bought them closer to the sight that was a fingers touch away, if only his mutinous daughter could play her part.
The Selwyn house was a three-story mansion of light grey slate, pillars upon pillars wrapped in tendrils of ivy painted the picturesque manor in a theme of abject wealth as the sun started to set across the horizon. Pockets of light attracted moths around the perimeter of the garden to dance around the pretty flowers. White carnations, roses and lillies, all pristine untouched by the winter that had befallen them. Bewitched to stay as they were, stagnant in time for their beauty to carry through the seasons even as the ground froze around them.
Classical music spread through the grounds on the chill of the evening as they approached the great doors ahead. With one last look spared to his daughter in warning, Reginald held his hand out to her. A moment passed before she enjoined them, met at the elbows.
The parlour had been transported into another world in itself at a first glance. The light glow from the chandeliers and candelabras had been transformed into a shade of green, veilfire lighting the room. The centre of the room housed a great tree, jars full of fireflies hung from low branches, the tallest of them almost reaching the raised two-story ceiling. Trapped to be yet another pretty thing prodded and stared at. Lush pockets of wildflowers sprung from the floor, accompanied by the odd littering of mushrooms of various colours. Around the tree, couples danced along to the tune of the evening, hidden behind masks of their own; each a creature of the woods in their own right. Moonlight poured in through the enchanted sky-light, shimmering on the pearlescent beads of mildew that had formed on fragile petals.
The only unmasked were those married already, parents who stood eagerly along the wall with the intent to join their children in a pact of marriage. Her father must have been positively itching to join them, as she did not see him when she turned to him once more. Instead, a tall man hidden behind the mask of a white snake, his robes a resplendent shade of green. Steel eyes bore through the holes of the mask at her, his hand outstretched expentantly.
"Miss Revere. I do believe I have your first dance of the evening." The cool, steady drawl of a confident man greets her. Silas Selwyn. A few years older than her, there is little she knows of the man save that he had left a lasting impression on her father. The first dance of the evening was regarded as the most important - and it was little surprise to Evelyn that her father had chosen him of all people. Even now, she stood in one of the very symbols of his propriety - one of the great residences appointed to the Selwyn family.
"Of course, Sir Selwyn. It would be my pleasure." She joins their hands together, his skin burning through the fabric of her glove.
"I must say, you look radiant tonight. Your help has outdone themselves." He compliments as his hands find the small of her back, the other keeping a healthy grip on her own. He begins to move her to the beat of the enchanted band, his eyes roving every inch of her. "A fawn. Fitting."
"My father did think so." She complies, allowing him to spin her twice in her spot.
"I am not surprised. Your father is a wise man. Shrewd - he has made many advantageous choices to get him where he is."
"So I have heard."
"Yes. He has come to be greatly respected in his circle." His hand splayed along her back, the fingers itching for purchase on the silk of her gown. She tries not to stifle too much under his touch, but the grimace on her face is impossible to overcome. He doesn't seem to notice, too enthralled in the dance. "Though, there are interesting whispers surrounding his decision to withhold you from the marriage mart until now."
"I cannot pretend to be privy to the conversations of gentleman, good sir. Perhaps this would be a better topic discussed with him?"
"Of course." A sly smile twitches his lips at her deflection. Gracefully, he lowers her before him, the serpents mask hovering above her own. "I must admit to my own interest. Tales of your beauty have been long since spoken. I resent that I might not see it tonight, for my own eyes."
"You flatter me." She says breathlessly, her grip on his shoulders growing taut with the fear he might drop her. His hand inches upwards along the dress until it connects with her skin, every part of her grows tight in it's rejection of the touch. She does not say a word. Judging from the smug grin of the man as he brings her back to his full height, he's pleased with her response or lack of one.
"I do hope you will save another dance for me, My Lady." He releases her hand with a bow. She curtsies for propriety's sake alone, a bitter taste forming in her mouth at the sight of his retreating form. The fragile peace of solitude fractured almost instantly.
"I do believe I have the next dance of the evening, My Lady." The amused, confident tone could have belonged to no other - Garreth Weasley. Hidden behind the mask of a freckled fox. Time had not changed much about the boy, save he had grown at least six inches, the way he towered over her now. She had remembered him fondly in the years that had passed, Garreth was a kind boy who sought only to see people smile. There didn't seem to be a bad bone in his body. Though it was unwanted, a marriage with him would have been simple and gentle. Though it was an unlikely prospect due to her father's low opinion of him.
The Weasleys, though pure of blood, were inherently a poor family who lived modest lives in a homestead by the coast of Devon. While they held the status of the Sacred 28, they were not inclined to engage in the courtly passions of secrecy, plotting and advancement. As such, a match with a Weasley was very low on a long list of suitors that Reginald would consider. Still, he had allowed the dance under the pretence of civility. . . and so, she would dance with him.
"Of course," She granted him a smile that almost reached the eyes. She lets him take her gloved hand in his, he guides her with a clumsy sort of fluidity that could only be his. Her gaze is caught on his windswept hair as they reach the centre of the room, the fireflies dance around him. He moves to bow before her and their heads make contact as she rises from her curtsy. "Oww-"
An uncannily contagious laugh leaves his lips, and she finds herself falling into it too. "Merlin. I'll try my best to spare you of any more head trauma."
"I'll hold my breath," a coy smile she gifts him as their hands join once more, his other finding purchase on the small of her back. The ghost of his touch over the fabric is surprisingly not unwelcome, though she credits that to Garreth's playful demeanor.
"I make no promises." He grinned, the fan of his cool breath fluttering small wisps of hair out of her braid. She rests her hands tenderly on the expanse of his broad shoulders, the fabric of his robes a tad itchy. And then he leads her, albeit clumsily, into a waltz. "I've been told I have two left feet. To tell you the truth, I think we'd be better off with you leading."
"And insult your good reputation?" She quirks her brow tentatively, her lips itching to smirk. "Perish the thought. I'll simply have to keep my feet out of your way."
"A charitable soul. I'm in luck." He spins her in her spot, a little too quickly as she stumbles to catch her footing. She's almost propelled into another couple before his hands catch hers again, reeling her back into him. The characteristic grin is back as she catches herself with one hand before she could make contact with his chest. "I warned you - All the lessons in the world could not fix my awkwardness."
"You are definitely . . . enthusiastic." She says, a little breathless. Then, adjusting her stance once more, "But not irredeemable. We could make a fine dancer out of you, yet."
"Oh, please do. I am yours to instruct."
"First of all," she laughs before she lectures, his eyes flick to her painted lips momentarily. "Slow down. It's a waltz, not a jig . . . You need to let the music guide you."
This time, he is silent when they join in the middle. His fingers don't stray from the proper spot along her spine, the other laced in hers. He watches her lips as she mouths along the number to the steps underneath the lull of the violin playing, he starts to move in time to her. One step, two. One step, two. Repetition. Spin. Then repeat.
By the time the song draws to a close, he is not perfect but he has improved marginally, at least enough to withstand the ire of the Weasley matriarch. They break away from each other to be pulled back into the thro. The enchanted band plays another song, and she is paired with another man to dance.
The evening passes by slowly like a taunt. The moon watches her as she watches it on the sidelines of the dance floor, a crystalline glass of punch in one hand. The names on her dance card had dwindled into nothingness by the time the end of the evening had begun it's approach. This small corner of the world she had found obscured her from her womanly duty, the watchful eye of her father, and the lechering lips of suitors who had partook in one too many glasses of wine.
She watches the bodies moving in tandem as the woodland creatures continue their farce, and wonders for a moment if any engagements had already come of the night. In the content smiles of the elder generation lining the walls, she was sure many advantageous matches had been set in motion. She could not make her father out amidst the slew of men circling each other, a pipe of smoke in one hand for a whiskey glass in the other. Rambunctious laughter bounced off the walls around them, no doubt recalling the proposals of lesser men. She was sure her father would move amongst the group as though he had always been there now, though that could not have been further from the truth.
In actuality, his recent advance to greatness had been in no small part due to Evelyn's toils during the Goblin Rebellion. The Revere line, though it had always possessed magic and coin, had not been considered amongst the powerful family's of the wizarding world. For all their coin, they did not hold what those valued best - the purest of blood, which most families took to their extreme in way of inbreeding to preserve this very fact. The Gaunts and Blacks were most well known for that perversion, yet they stood amongst the tallest of them. One simple fact had propelled the family into notoriety - the ancient magic coursing through her veins.
While disagreeable that his daughter had become a ruffian trapsing the highland in search of danger, that one simple fact had seemed to alleviate his growing disdain. The power growing inside of her had opened more doors than even she realised at the time, and in so doing, had slammed others behind her. The underlying truth? That made her a desirable prospect even without blood status. Any number of the pureblood dynasties would have killed to have that sort of power in their lineage. They all knew it too, the way they had gathered around her like moth to a flame. Each intent to one-up the other in favour of her hand.
That, had been the rise of Reginald Revere. With no exceptional talent to hold to his own name, there was no reluctance in his decision to use his daughter's to his advantage. After all, he was a shrewd man. That was what shrewd men did.
So long were the days of adventuring; deciphering ancient riddles left behind by great wizards of different times; of danger and excitement ; of friendships bonded in the heat of battle. Instead, a docile life had taken her into it's clutches. One of watching silently from windows as the world flew by, being forced into restrictive dresses like a pig on display, of a gilded cage. She reminded herself often that this was a similar fate befalling most of womenkind, and found herself lucky that her worth was not bartered in livestock or land like many others. A rueful aspect of being a woman. At least she was spared that much.
She glared daggers into the liquid in her glass, swirling her reflection indifferently back to her. A huffed exhale of breath and she downs the contents of it, a bead of orange drips down her chin. She stains her white glove working it off her skin. She tracks her eyes back to the dancers before her, the other woodland creatures entranced by the evening that has left her feeling more empty than most. She thought back to the dance she had shared with Garreth and found it to be the only enjoyable exchange of the evening so far.
It would not be so bad, she thinks, if it were to be him she was paired with. He was a kind man, he always knew how to make her smile before. He was sweet in his youth, always offering help when he had no reason to. They moved in different circles, as was common for students in different houses. But he'd never made an effort to be anything but genuinely compassionate. And he was handsome enough, a little rugged in his charm but it worked for him. Perhaps in time, it could transform into more than duty if it was allowed to grow.
It was an unlikely prospect. Her father seemed more inclined to accept the advancements of a certain snake that had bordered on the line of impropriety tonight with his wandering hands. Silas Selwyn had a sort of predatory charm to him, all straight edges with a masked sense of superiority hidden behind politeness. His smirk was devilish in nature, his eyes cold and unfeeling. A life with him would be unhappy, a boy raised like a king could never be told no. His eyes would linger, as would his hands most likely. They would live in a large house not dissimilar to this one, in luxurious misery as they avoided each other for most of their days. Only joining when the marital act demanded.
She hoped against hope that another man, more agreeable in nature, would make his intentions known tonight. That somebody would rival the proposal of the Selwyn's, the hosts of tonight's soiree. For all her silent pleas had gone unnoticed so far, she allowed herself a moment longer to collect her before she joined the party again.
A moment was all he needed.
A wolf slipped through the crowd, the woodland creatures shirking to make way for his presence. The mask was fitting since he moved with the unwavering authority of a leader of the pack. He stalked towards her, eyes locked onto the fawn before him that seemed to shudder under his unflinching gaze. Deep brown eyes - almost black - glinted under the light of the chandeliers. Finally, he reached her as she played coyly with the glass between her hands.
"Good evening." His voice was a deep icy tone that flickered through the confines of the metallic mask that obscured his face bar the boundless pools of brown. Closer now, she could see the faint flickers of honey brown and golden green. He slipped into place beside her with a glass of his own in hand, the malt whiskey smell drifting around him like a cloak. "The Selwyns have positively outdone themselves tonight. I imagine it will be the talk of the court for some time. . .Terrible choice of song, though."
The stranger got a reaction out of her in the way of a poorly disguised snort. A smirk formed on his lips beneath the mask. "It certainly leaves a lot to be desired."
"I've come to claim your last dance of the evening." He takes both of their glasses in deft gloved hands, depositing them on a side table. Then, his hand is expectantly laid in front of her. She's long since grown weary of the dancing, but it would be impolite to refuse. She lets him take her onto the middle of the dance floor, where the fireflies light reveal more of the man to her. A brunet, perfectly imperfect styled hair that seemed to fall in every direction as though meticulously placed, though more likely it was dishevelled by his hand.
His gloved hand braces her back as he leans into her, the second held hers in a possessive grip. Whatever expression he is wearing is kept hidden from her by the metallic shield he wore. She finds herself feeling a mix of determination to unmask the man, and the other a quiet mumble in the back of her mind that enjoys the mystery of it. Her fingers tighten on the grasp she has on his hands.
"I was surprised to find you on the side lines tonight. This is your debut, isn't it?" The wolf finally speaks, their feet falling in tandem as they swerve through the bodies around them.
"I needed a moment alone."
"You took several, " A twitch in his neck underneath her fingers betrays the disguise for a moment, she assumes he is smiling. "I would know. I was waiting for you."
"I was not aware I was sought after."
"Hm." The wolf answers, his gaze transfixed on the fawn. "You're a bad liar."
"I was not aware I was under scrutiny, either."
"All night I have watched you. You've smiled at all the right times, you've danced with many men - some more agreeable than others. Take the Weasley boy, for example." He starts, and her breath is caught in her throat as she listens to him. "You liked him well enough. He wouldn't be your first choice, but in the absence of one, you would have accepted his hand. You'd probably come to enjoy his company if you learnt to ignore his eccentricities. You'd live an average life tending to his household and children. I've heard the Weasley's are a large family, you'd have no less than three or four at least. It's not the worst fate, you imagine. But all the same, it isn't yours."
He spins her round with more than his words, her breath comes shallow as she is pulled back into his embrace. Her hands fight for purchase on the fabric of his dark suit, her doe-eyes staring up at him through the mask. Another titch to his jaw.
"And then, there's the Selwyn boy. A veritable rake if the rumours are to be believed. Though for all his experience, he'd leave you wanting more. You'd live comfortably enough, never lifting a finger. You'd be bathed in riches and luxuries all the while hating the hand that feeds you. But you won't bite. You know you've no option, so you get on with it. One day at a time."
"Is there a point to this?" She asks, finally finding her voice. It comes out tight, the fan of her breath fogs the mask he wears.
"I'm getting to that part." His voice comes quickly in an amused tone.
"And then, enter the wolf. You know nothing about him, you can't even see his face and yet he seems to see so much of you. He has been your most interesting part of the evening so far."
"That's a rather quick assumption, my lord." She dances back, her voice coy and uncaged for the first time this evening. "How can you presume to know how I feel?"
His hand traces circles into her back, her skin raises even beneath the layers of silk and leather. Then, slowly but surely, his hand inches higher and higher still, until it stops its course on the lining of her dress. "Because I can feel it. The way you hold your breath when I get too close, you try to mask it under the pretence you've exerted yourself tonight. But you and I know better."
"Is that so?" She breathes, her fingers ghosting over the cold exterior of his mask. He hums in response to the touch he cannot feel.
"Absolutely. It seems the fawn has grown most entranced by the danger of the wolf." Their hands ghost against each others palms as they stalk each other in a circle, their eyes don't stay the course of each other through the movement even as bodies clamber beside them. "Perhaps the uncertainty excites you more than you realise. You knows he's trouble. . . yet you don't fight to break free of his jaws."
"Does he mean to bite?" Her fingers twitch against his as she tries to school the wide-eyed expression back into place. Despite herself, she feels the tell-tale heat rising to her face and silently thanks all the gods that decided tonight would be a masked event. There is no hiding the redness of her ears, especially from the wolf.
"That is his nature." He sighs theatrically, nodding his head as though dejected. "Pretty things don't last long when it comes to him. Still, he finds himself chasing them all the same."
"How romantic." Eve's sardonic laugh strikes him, he stills in his machinations. They are still just barely touching, and even through the layers, she can feel him on her skin like a static shock. "In this fantasy of yours, not only am I prey but I am not even the sole object of your attention. You have a way with women, sir."
"You mistake me."
"Do I?"
He brings her form flush to his in a show of strength and passion unrivalled by any man in the room. And then, tantalizingly slowly the coolness of his mask braces against her neck as he leans into her. "Don't pout. You don't need to lie to me. You enjoy this. You enjoy not knowing the man who holds you like this in his arms. You find yourself imagining what those hands could do to you - would they touch you tenderly? Would they hurt you? Would they take you somewhere you've never been before, and throw you off the deep end?"
"I can assure you, I am thinking of no such thing." Her voice comes like a twig snapped underfoot, shaking around the tight exhale of a woman pushed towards her breaking point. She should move away, weave herself into the crowd before anyone lays eyes on them this way, him too close. His touch burnt every lucid thought out of her brain when his hands wrapped instinctively round her waist, pulling her in further.
The smell of him invaded her, warm notes of sandalwood, cedar and the faint after effects of a cigar. Merlin, he even smelt like danger, the way the smoke seemed to cling to him like the aftermath of a well-timed explosion. Her breath hitches in her throat as she willingly pulls more of him into her. Judging by the stammering breaths beneath the mask, he is similarly overwhelmed by the scent of her. The closeness.
This was, after all, the closest she had ever been to a man since her days as a student. The last touch that had sent her mind racing was that of a boy who had long since been locked away. In the time since, her fantasies had revolved around him in ways she could not explain - lingering touches and looks that had once set her heart aflutter had long since grown cold in the weight of his absence. A boy she had loved recklessly in her youth, to watch him become a fragile and broken piece of himself with only his own desperate folly to blame. A boy who had been imprisoned at the age of sixteen, to never know the light of day for the rest of his.
And now, his face appeared to have been forgotten. The soft touch of his lips on hers had washed away with the passage of time. His voice, what she could remember of it, had turned into a whisper in the space he left behind. Instead, a man held her now, his grip ever tight on the metaphorical leash he pulled her with.
She found her thoughts had spiralled into something much darker before her very eyes - the thought of his tall form looming over her, his face still hidden beneath the mask of the wolf. Perhaps hers would stay too, in some perverse form of a game between the two of them. Would he be gentle when he took her, like the romance novels always eluded to. Or would he be dark, and rough, and turn her into something so genuinely pliant underneath his hands she's unsure she would ever be the same again.
"Then why,” His hand comes to rest atop her chest, his fingers make contact with the bare skin of her sternum. “is your heart beating so fast?"
She's flustered, caught in the act of her own depravity. "The punch. They made it too strong tonight."
A chuckle, deep and raspy, is pulled from his chest as he pulls away from her, his lingering hands fall to his side. "Of course."
The song reaches its crescendo, in the blink of an eye, the wolf parts through the crowd without a second glance. She finds herself searching for him, pushing through the crowd around her to no avail.
In the weeks following the ball, wizarding society is alive with the healthy spreading of rumours. People speak in hushed tones of the night's events, who danced with who, who had captured the attention of the Selwyn heir. Many of those whispers favoured Eve in the last regard, much to her dismay and her father's glee. The wolf, however, had gone utterly silent. He had appeared as a ghost and left twice as quickly - leaving her with nothing more than a rapidly beating heart and a new encounter to add to her nightly thoughts.